


how strange and difficult (feigning innocence is)

by ceaseandexist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: American AU, Bad Boy Zayn, Car Crash/Injury, Church Boy Harry, Coming Out, First Time, Frottage, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, Liam does not exist, M/M, Masturbation, Painkillers, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 13:36:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2390261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceaseandexist/pseuds/ceaseandexist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is the shy, innocent son of a preacher of a mega-church. Zayn is the leather-clad, tattooed biker Harry nearly kills. They have more in common than they initially expect.</p><p>(A bible-belt American AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	how strange and difficult (feigning innocence is)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovingit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovingit/gifts).



> To lovingit - this story deviated quite a bit from the prompt, but I hope you like it anyway! 
> 
> Sidenote: I'm Jewish and didn't grow up in a Christian community, so I hope I got the Pastor/Preacher stuff right. Let me know if I didn't! 
> 
> Also, a massive thank you to Annie for all of your help! I seriously could have never done this without you. I can't put into words how much I appreciate the time you put into this despite having to manage your own full-time job and side projects and adventurous trips etc. I owe you a box of goodies from the mainland or something. Or a month's supply of Trader Joe's wine. Regardless, thank you! 
> 
> Title from "I want! I want!" by Walk the Moon  
> This title used to be different, but I no longer want anything I do to be associated with the person behind those lyrics.

Zayn is a man with no choices. He didn’t have a choice but to leave home, his disappointed mother standing in the grass begging him to think of the family as his father fumed behind a slammed bedroom door. Zayn had no choice but to get as far away from there as his motorcycle, the only thing of significance he’d ever bought with his own money, can take him. Zayn had no choice but to use up all of his savings, everything he had carefully put away for years, to embark on a cross-country road trip he never intended to take. 

 

More than anything, what Zayn’s parents don’t understand is that he has no choice but to be himself. Zayn hates that it’s not a choice almost as much as they do.

 

But Zayn can make small deviations off the path laid out for him by fate or God or whatever controls the universe these days. That’s why he's taking side roads today, because they're an illusion of an option available to him on this journey. And side roads in the Midwestern United States, well, they’re kind of nice, what with all the trees and homes and small town centers he speeds through, surely a shock in his black leather jacket, torn black skinny jeans and chunky Doc Martens. It’s nice to see life winding outside of the straight, concrete lanes of the highway.   

 

Nice, that is, until the truck on the country road in front of him suddenly screeches to a halt. Zayn can’t slow down in time. He knows he’ll go head-first into the back of the truck if he doesn’t do something, so he has no choice. He swerves.

 

It’s still disastrous. His motorcycle hops the curb and he goes flying, landing right-leg-first into the grass on the side of the road. He knows it’s bad when he both hears and feels the crack. Pain shoots through his leg up into his chest, leaving him gasping for air.

 

Zayn is trying to blink away the tears prickling at his eyes when a curly-haired man appears above him. If he didn’t hurt so badly, Zayn might dwell on how attractive the man is, all big green eyes and plump red lips and a baby face that contrasts weirdly well with his tall, lanky body. Zayn has never been attracted to men with baby faces. Something is really wrong with him.

 

“Are you okay?” the stranger asks. Then he looks down at Zayn’s leg and gulps. He turns a little green as he gestures to a phone in his hand. “I, um, I called the police. They’re on their way. They’re still on the line. I’ll, um, I’ll tell them to bring an ambulance too?”

 

Zayn squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on breathing while the man relays the ambulance request to whatever operator he’s reached. Zayn should try to get up, he thinks, at least sit up so when help arrives he doesn’t look totally pathetic. But the longer he lies there, the worse the pain gets.

 

The guy sits with him, attempting to reassure him by saying “the lady on the phone told me to tell you that you’re going to be okay. You’re breathing? Right? Yeah, you’re breathing. Okay. Yeah, you’re going to be okay. Don’t panic.”

 

Zayn hurts too badly to panic. The ride to the hospital is a blur. He gets some pain medication pretty quickly and he’s a bit woozy from it, but he’s aware enough to realize that the sympathetic looks he gets from both the EMTs and the ER nurses aren’t a good sign.

 

Right before they tell him they’re going to “reduce” his leg, they ask if he wants them to call anyone. “Family? A friend nearby?” the nurse asks.

 

Zayn briefly thinks of his mother, of the way she used to smooth her fingers through his hair whenever he got hurt. She would probably drop everything to be by his side if she knew he was hurt like this. He thinks she would, at least. He’s not sure if things have changed that much. But he shakes his head no at the nurse anyway. He can’t call his mom anymore, he realizes. Or not just yet, anyway. He has to give her time to let go.

 

So the doctor gives him more meds, and one of the nurses holds his hand when the doctor seemingly crushes his leg back into place. They stitch up a gash he didn’t realize he had on his arm and splint his leg, and then Zayn must drift off for a while, because the next thing he knows, the rush of medical personnel are gone, replaced by the curly-haired guy who caused the crash and an older man with graying hair and a bulging belly.

 

“How long was I out for?” Zayn croaks. “And who are you?”

 

The older man smiles and extends a hand out to Zayn. “I’m Pastor Robin Styles, and this is my son, Harry. You apparently crashed into the back of his truck earlier.”

 

Harry shakes his head sadly. “It’s not his fault, dad. I told you.”

 

He looks up guiltily at Zayn. “I’m so sorry. There were these ducks, and I didn’t see them until too late but I didn’t want to kill them because they’re ducks, right? So I stopped short and forgot you were behind me and then …” he trails off and gestures at Zayn’s leg. “Sorry. It’s my fault. Completely.”

 

Zayn squints down at his leg, which is propped up on some pillows and wrapped in an ace bandage. He has another bandage on his arm and an IV in the opposite hand. Nothing seems to hurt that badly, just a dull ache, really.

 

“Why are you here?” Zayn asks, looking between Harry and his father. Even if the accident was Harry’s fault, they have no obligation to stick around for him. If it were the other way around, Zayn would have left once the ambulance collected Harry.

 

“The doctor told us you didn’t have any family around. He thought you might want someone to be here when you woke up a bit,” Pastor Styles says. He looks down sympathetically at Zayn’s leg.

 

The doctor picks that moment to walk in. “You’re awake,” he says brightly. He takes a look at the monitor behind Zayn and scribbles something down on his clipboard. “Mr. Malik, is it? I’m Dr. Walker. You got in a bit of an accident today, didn’t you?”

 

Zayn nods. “How bad is my leg?” he asks.

 

“Pretty bad,” Dr. Walker admits. “You broke it nearly clean in half, but we reduced it for now. You’ll need to make an appointment with an orthopedist to see if they want to operate once the swelling goes down. You scraped up your arm pretty good too. We stitched that up, so you’ll just need to leave that bandage on for now and keep it very clean. The nurse will show you how to take care of it before we discharge you. It shouldn’t mess up any of your tattoos, though.”

 

Zayn glances down at his arm. He didn’t realize stitches could mess up tattoos. Zayn’s less sure how to work out an appointment with an orthopedist.

 

“Listen, I’m not really from around here. Do I have to see an orthopedist at this hospital?” he asks.

 

“No, but you definitely shouldn’t be on your own just yet. We’re going to send you home with some pain meds for your leg that will probably make you a little woozy, and you aren’t going to be able to get around very easily for the next few weeks.”

 

Zayn wants to cry. There’s no way he can ride all the way to Kansas City by nightfall like he planned. He hasn’t even hit St. Louis yet. Danny is all the way in Denver, and it seems like it’s too much to ask him both for a place to live and a ride from states away to Colorado. He can’t go home, either. That would be giving up, and Zayn doesn’t give up.

 

“I don’t really have anywhere I can go,” he says quietly. He can hear the wobble in his voice and he hates it, hates how he sounds like a lost little boy.

 

That’s when Pastor Styles steps forward. “If you have nowhere to go, why don’t you stay with us for a little while?” he suggests. Dr. Walker and Zayn both look quizzically at him. “We have a guest house out back. You wouldn’t need to go up any stairs or anything. And Harry lives at home, so he could take you to any doctors' appointments.”

 

Pastor Styles claps a hand on Harry’s shoulder as he speaks, and Harry seems to withdraw into himself the second his father touches him. It’s creepy. Zayn’s not sure how he feels about Pastor Styles if his own son seems to shrink away from him.

 

Zayn’s about to tell him no when Dr. Walker butts in. “Sounds like a great idea to me. You’re only in Nicksonville anyway, right? That’s not too far.” He looks back at Zayn and cocks an eyebrow at him. “How about it? Your choice. If you don’t want to stay with the Styles, you can stay here for the night, but you’ll have to find someone to come get you in the morning. And I can vouch for Pastor Styles. He’s a good man.”

 

Zayn scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Staying at a pastor’s house? Zayn might not be the most devoted Muslim in the world, but he’s not sure he wants Jesus shoved down his throat either. And he hardly knows this guy. Is it really a better idea to stay with them than give in and call his parents?

 

He sighs and thinks of their plans for him, the reason he had to leave in the first place. Maybe if he just stays with the pastor until he sees the orthopedist? Then he’ll find himself a bus or something out of there.

 

Zayn looks back up into the expectant faces of Dr. Walker and Pastor Styles. Harry, he notices, is still huddled over in the chair next to Zayn’s bed. He almost looks like he’s praying. And for all Harry seemed willing to sacrifice Zayn’s well-being for a family of ducks, Zayn can’t help but feel a little bad for how sincerely torn up Harry seems about it.

 

Zayn shrugs. “I guess, if it’s okay with you, Pastor Styles, I can stay for a few days. Just until I can be on my own, right?”

 

Pastor Styles smiles down at Zayn, pityingly, Zayn thinks. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.”

 

***

 

When they finally get back to the Styles home, it’s close to midnight. Zayn wouldn’t have been surprised if Mrs. Styles had taken one look at him and pronounced her husband crazy for inviting someone like Zayn to stay with them. He knows he looks intimidating with all the tattoos and leather and his pierced ears and lip. He tries his best not to wince from the pain when he hobbles into the Styles home and put on his most polite expression, but the pain is much worse when he’s upright.

 

But Mrs. Styles just smiles and hugs him as best she can around his crutches. “You must be Zayn,” she says cheerfully. “I’m Anne. Let me show you your room.” And with that, she leads him out back as if he’s an old friend popping in for a visit and not some tattooed, scruffy stranger her son nearly killed when he prioritized duck safety over considerate driving.

 

The guest house is nicer than he imagined. It’s all one big room. There’s a plaid couch near the door that aesthetically is horrific but looks like it’s pretty comfortable, a small kitchenette with a table and two chairs, and a big bed on the opposite wall covered by what looks like a homemade quilt. There’s a huge cross hanging over the bed, and Zayn wonders again whether they’ll try to convert him while he’s there.

 

If that’s the Styles’ plan, they have quite a bit of work ahead of them, because when Zayn wakes up screaming in pain hours later, he’s cursing everyone from Jesus to his own mother under that cross. His leg feels like someone is drilling into his bone, pain radiating all the way up his leg to his hip. The room is dark, but he can hear rustling coming from the couch.

 

“Hold on a second,” Harry mumbles from the other side of the room. “I just have to find the light.”

 

Zayn groans and squeezes his hands into fists to try to distract himself from the pain. He’s not sure why he doesn’t want Harry to see him struggling with it, but something about the way Harry’s face has been knotted in a mixture of concern and guilt all day makes Zayn want to protect him. It’s like stopping short in front of Zayn on the road was the worst thing Harry has ever done, and yeah, while that’s pretty bad, it’s not like Harry was actually harmed. Zayn normally doesn't care so much about making other people more comfortable, but there’s a weird pull between Zayn and Harry. Zayn isn’t so sure he likes it.

 

Harry gives him the first pain pill with no fuss, but when it isn’t working after five minutes, Zayn tries to wheedle Harry into giving him another one. Leave it to Harry to be the type of person who insists on following directions exactly as written on the prescription.

 

“You have to wait four hours,” Harry insists and hands him an ice pack instead.

 

“My entire fucking leg feels like somebody hacked it at with a baseball bat and then ran over it with a monster truck, and you think an ice pack will help?” Zayn hisses.

 

Harry frowns and puts the ice pack down. “I’m just trying to help,” he says sadly.

 

“What are you even doing here?” Zayn asks. “It’s the middle of the night. Shouldn’t you be inside?”

 

Harry shrinks under Zayn’s tone. He stares at his shoes, and Zayn feels guilty -- he does -- it’s just that he’s never been in this much pain in his life. Even getting his ribs tattooed didn't hurt like this. 

 

“I, um, thought I’d sleep out here in case you needed something?” Harry says quietly. “Just, I thought maybe you didn’t want to be alone. Or, like, maybe you’d need help.”

 

“You could have asked,” Zayn says. “I can take care of myself.”

 

The words are out of Zayn’s mouth before he can stop them, and he regrets it immediately. What Zayn can see of Harry’s face falls, and it’s terrible because when Harry pouts, he looks like the little kid who gets excluded from every game on the playground. Zayn knows that feeling well enough to soften up a little.

 

“Look, my leg just really fucking hurts right now,” Zayn says as he tries to sit up a little bit. “Do you mind if I smoke in here? There’s a pack of Marlboros in the front pocket of my bag. I need a good smoke. ”

 

Harry looks up at Zayn, clearly conflicted. “You shouldn’t smoke,” he says. “It’ll give you cancer.”

 

“What, are you a preacher now too?” Zayn asks.

 

He seems to have touched a raw nerve, because Harry rolls his eyes and groans, clearly offended. He retrieves Zayn’s backpack from the end of the bed and nearly throws it at Zayn before opening a window, settling back on the couch and pulling the blanket back up to his chin. “Let me know if you need anything else,” Harry says before he turns on his side away from Zayn.

 

Zayn wakes up twice more through the night, and Harry gets up each time to get Zayn another pain pill. When Zayn wakes up at 9 a.m., a full hour before he’s due for more medication, he notices that at some point, Harry’s laid three ice packs on top of his leg. They’re still cold, as if Harry’s recently put them there, and Zayn can just barely feel it through the thick splint that goes all the way up to the middle of his thigh.

 

He takes a moment to admire Harry while he’s asleep. He’s all curls and soft features and big lips, innocent and young. He’s everything Zayn never looks for in a guy, and yet Zayn can’t help but acknowledge the attraction there. It’s been too long since he’s been laid, he decides. Way too long.

 

Zayn tries to be quiet as he gets himself another cigarette, but the smell once he lights it must wake Harry, because he stirs and coughs his way into consciousness.

 

“Sorry,” Zayn says guiltily before he takes another puff of the cigarette.

 

“What time’s it?” Harry mutters as he rubs at his eyes.

 

“Just after 9,” Zayn says. He gestures down at his ice pack-covered leg. “Thanks, by the way, for this.”

 

Harry sits up and shrugs. “You were, um, like, moaning in, uh, in your sleep,” Harry says, his cheeks pinking up.

 

“Oh,” Zayn says. It’s awkwardly silent as he finishes his cigarette. He grabs his backpack and attempts to maneuver his way to the bathroom so he can brush his teeth and change, but the whole thing is a stupid idea considering he’s not used to the crutches and his pain medication is nearly worn off.

 

By the time Zayn is halfway from the bathroom back to the bed (which, it turns out, is much farther from the bathroom than it initially seems), he’s covered in a thin sheen of sweat and is breathing heavily. Harry’s eyes flicker up and down his body. Zayn is positive he looks terrible. He did nothing to fluff up his matted, dark hair, left the shorts he slept in last night on as a convenience, and changed into a ratty black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. The splint on his leg is ridiculously thick and heavy, and the bruising on his arm obscures some of his favorite tattoos.

 

Harry doesn’t seem to mind, though. When Zayn catches him staring, Harry swallows guiltily, his cheeks still a bit pink. If Harry wasn’t a preacher’s kid, Zayn might suspect Harry was checking him out. But Harry is a preacher’s kid, and besides. Zayn won’t be in town for long. It doesn’t do Zayn any good to start crushing on someone he could never have.

 

“Find this entertaining, Styles?” Zayn grits out once he gets himself back to the bed. He’s not yet ready to attempt to lift his leg up onto the mattress, so he just sits on the end of it and lets himself catch his breath.

 

“No, no,” Harry hurriedly corrects. “I just, really, I don’t mind helping you if you need it. It’s the least I could do.”

 

Harry chews at his bottom lip, as if Harry is the one asking for a favor. He looks so young and vulnerable that Zayn feels bad denying him. And it can’t be so terrible, anyway, to have an attractive guy at his beck and call for a little while.

 

“Fine,” Zayn relents. “Maybe it’s okay if you help me out just for these next few days.”

 

Harry’s grin splits his face wide open. Zayn has never seen someone so excited to literally become what amounts to somebody else’s slave.

 

“But just for the next few days, okay?” Zayn says. “Just until I figure out how I’m going to get myself out of here.”

 

Harry nods eagerly. “Of course,” he agrees, and there’s a happy lift to his voice that lights up something inside of Zayn. “Can I make you breakfast? I can make strawberry and chocolate chip pancakes from the strawberries I just picked fresh yesterday.”

 

Zayn shakes his head and smiles. “Whatever, dude. As long as I can have some more of that vicodin or whatever it is they gave me.”

 

***

 

That few days of having Harry help him out quickly turns into a few weeks when the orthopedist informs Zayn that they’ll have to operate.

 

“That bone will take forever to heal on its own, if it ever does,” the doctor tells him. “We can put a rod in and you’ll be back on your feet months faster,” he says. There’s really no arguing with that timetable, and Zayn’s not sure how he’ll explain the hit on his parents’ health insurance caused by surgery, but he doesn’t have a choice. He can’t stay in Nicksonville forever.

 

Harry seems to get that Zayn’s not thrilled about the surgery, because he offers to take Zayn out for ice cream after the appointment at the orthopedist.

 

“My mom always used to take me out for sundaes after doctor’s appointments,” Harry says. It’s one of the few times Harry isn’t stumbling over his words. “There’s a really good place at a dairy farm just outside of town if you’re hungry?”

 

Zayn shrugs. For all of Harry’s awkward tendencies, he’s not terrible company, and ice cream will be a refreshing break from another stifling day spent locked up in bed in the Styles’ home.

 

It’s a nice day, one of those summer afternoons where the haze of the morning has cleared out and the sunshine isn’t overpowered by heavy heat. They sit outside at a picnic table to eat. Harry tells Zayn about how he used to try to feed the cows his ice cream when he was younger and how his dad always used to smile and praise Harry’s giving spirit. None of the cows ever showed an interest in Harry’s offers, though, Harry laments mournfully.

 

It’s the type of story Zayn would have never showed an interest in in any other situation. It’s kind of ridiculous, but the way Harry tells it, his eyes still hopeful and big, is ridiculously endearing. Zayn forgets for a moment about the surgery looming ahead, the interruption to his cross-country trip, the worries that his parents will force him somehow to come home. He focuses instead on the image in his mind of a younger Harry leaning over the wooden fence, begging a smelly cow to come over and take a lick of his ice cream cone. It’s much nicer to think about.

 

Harry’s been very good to Zayn -- at least he has ever since the time Harry nearly killed him. Zayn feels a little guilty about being so resistant to Harry’s attempts to help him since the accident. And yeah, back when he was living with his parents, he had to put a wall up to protect himself, but maybe here around Harry, he can soften his stance a bit.   

 

Over the next few days, spending more time just hanging out with Harry proves a good distraction, and it seems in no time at all that it’s Monday -- surgery day -- and Zayn wakes up for the second time in as many weeks in a hospital bed with only a curtain separating him from the rest of the world. His leg is throbbing, but he’s thankful for it because at least that means they didn’t have to cut it off in the operating room.

 

Harry’s sitting next to him reading a cooking magazine. He looks so boyish sometimes, nearly buried in an oversized sweatshirt. His hair is curlier and puffier than normal, as if he’s been running his fingers through it non-stop, and he’s twirling a curl around his finger as he reads. The scene is oddly peaceful for a hospital, and Zayn thinks maybe he could doze all day here with Harry by his side.

 

But once the nurses realize he’s awake, they’re over by his bed in a flash, trying to get him to eat something and see if he can take any oral pain medication. Zayn is pretty sure all it does is get him high again, because he can’t help but chuckle when he catches Harry gazing after one of Zayn’s male nurses, Harry’s stare fixed on the man’s bum.

 

“Found yourself a boyfriend there, Harry?” Zayn croaks, then laughs at the way Harry’s eyes go wide and his face turns pale.

 

“What? A boyfriend? No, I’m not, I wouldn’t,” Harry splutters and Zayn doesn’t even realize he’s reaching out and patting Harry on the head until he feels Harry’s curls between his fingers.

 

“S’okay, Harry,” Zayn murmurs. “I won’t tell.”

 

Harry just frowns at him and goes back to reading his magazine.

 

They let Zayn go home that night, and it’s a given that Harry will spend another night on the couch in the guest house. Harry’s become pretty good at figuring out how to help Zayn get settled into bed. Over the past week, he’s seemed to learn when Zayn wants a smoke, when he wants to chat, or when he just wants to be left alone. Harry has even figured out that Zayn loves the Reeses cookies Harry bakes and therefore keeps a steady batch in supply in the guest house.

 

That night after surgery, Harry seems to read Zayn’s mind again. It’s as if he knows Zayn is still shaken by the entire surgical process and wants someone very close by, so Harry crawls into bed with Zayn to watch a movie on Harry’s iPad. Zayn is still a bit loopy and tired from the combination of pain medication and anaesthesia, so he’s startled when he wakes up in the middle of the night to somehow find that he had fallen asleep with his head on Harry’s chest. He especially can’t figure out how it is that Harry Styles, preacher’s son, would have an arm wrapped around Zayn and a nose buried in Zayn’s hair, his soft snores muffled a bit by Zayn’s greasy black hair. 

 

Zayn decides to be relieved when he wakes the next morning to find that Harry is already up and puttering about in the guest house kitchen. If Harry had found them cuddled together when he woke, he says nothing of it. And for the next few days, he doesn’t act like anything’s different between the two of them. He continues to wait on Zayn hand and foot, making sure Zayn has everything he needs to such a point that Zayn starts to feel like something worse should have happened to him to merit such kindness out of Harry.

 

Harry works afternoons at the church. Zayn’s not sure exactly what he does and Harry doesn’t seem to like to talk about church much. Zayn misses Harry when he’s working, though. It feels kind of uncomfortable to be in the guest house alone, and it’s awkward when it’s Mrs. Styles, not Harry, bringing him food or sitting and talking to him to pass the time. Sometimes, Zayn feels like he’s craving Harry’s presence. He tells himself that’s the pain medication speaking.

 

***

 

Zayn is five days post-op when he finds out Harry has a day off, and he’s feeling well enough that he asks Harry to take him to the mechanic shop that’s fixing his bike. Zayn is probably a long way from being able to actually ride it, but at least knowing it’s operational might be a good reminder of how temporary this pit stop in Nicksonville has to be.

 

The outing turns out to be much more difficult than Zayn anticipated. They have to take Harry’s truck, and Zayn can’t climb into it by himself, so Harry half lifts him up into his seat and helps him out of it when they arrive. Zayn refuses to think about how surprisingly strong Harry is and what his muscles must look like underneath all those plaid button-downs he normally insists on wearing. He fixes his best glower on his face as he crutches his way inside, where he’s met by a cheerful-looking blond man in blue coveralls who has grease on his cheek. He looks like he can’t be much older than Harry.

 

“You must be the biker Styles here nearly killed,” the mechanic says as he reaches out to shake Zayn’s hand. “I’m Niall. I’ve been working on your bike.”

 

“I didn’t mean to hurt him!” Harry protests, but Niall just laughs.

 

“Course you didn’t. Never hurt a flea in your life, have you?” Niall says, clapping Harry on the back as he comes out from behind the counter and leads them both outside toward another building behind the main shop. “The bike’s almost fixed. We’re just waiting on one more part to come in. That leg of yours must have hurt something awful considering how much damage was done to the bike.”

 

Zayn shrugs. “It’s not too bad,” he says, mostly because Harry is once again looking like he accidentally ran over someone’s puppy and something weird churns in Zayn’s gut whenever Harry looks like that.

 

Niall gives Zayn a doubtful once over. “Yeah, you look like a tough guy, I guess. Anyway,” he says as he leads them into what looks like a second shop, “here’s your bike.”

 

Zayn sighs happily when he sees it. The detailing work makes it seem like nothing ever happened, and even though he knew it was fixable, actually seeing the bike in one piece makes him feel like he’s free again, like he can leave whenever he wants and he’s not so trapped in a small town in the middle of nowhere.

 

He wishes he knew how to thank Niall properly. Instead, he’s lost for words, staring in awe as Niall points out what work they’ve already done and what else they have to do to have it operational again.

 

“It’ll be ready to go before you’re ready to ride it,” Niall says proudly when he’s finished showing off his handiwork.

 

“Perfect. I’m hoping to get out of here as soon as I get the go-ahead from my surgeon,” Zayn replies. He’s not sure whether it’s just his imagination or whether Harry actually flinches when he says it. Zayn only lets himself dwell on it for a brief moment, because once he starts to think about leaving Harry behind in Nicksonville, he feels a weird lack of excitement about the trip to Denver. It’s stupid, Zayn tells himself. It’s not like he could pursue anything with Harry even if he wanted to; Harry’s the preacher’s son. He’s not gay.

 

“Styles family not treating you well?” Niall asks, looking confusedly between Zayn and Harry.

 

Harry just bites his lip and shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his skinny black jeans.

 

“No, no, they’ve been great,” Zayn says, and even if it weren’t true, he’d probably have said it just to get that look off Harry’s face. “I just, you know, have places to go and don’t want to bother them for too long.”

 

“It’s no bother,” Harry says quietly from where he’s standing on Zayn’s left.

 

“Probably nice for Harry here to have the company,” Niall says. He’s smiling again. He does that an awful lot, Zayn notices, but this smile is different. More pitying. “Heard the old man has you working at the church again all summer.”

 

Harry looks up at Niall and shrugs. “It’s not bad work,” he reasons. “And, like, I get paid and everything.”

 

“Yeah, but you don’t want to work at the church all your life, do you?” Niall asks. Zayn’s sure Niall means well, and it seems like Niall probably knows more about Harry than Zayn does, but it’s obvious Harry doesn’t want to talk about the church.

 

“You been working here long?” Zayn asks Niall in an attempt to take the attention away from Harry.

 

“Summers since I was 13, then started up full time after graduating high school a couple years ago.”

 

“You’re Harry’s age?” Zayn asks.

 

“No, a year older. I’m 21. Can drink legally and everything,” Niall says. “Which, speaking of, if you ever want to grab a pint, a friend of Harry’s is always a friend of mine. I’ll take you out on the town.”

 

Zayn grins. It’s like Niall’s cheerful attitude is contagious. “Didn’t realize there was much of a town to speak of,” Zayn says.

 

Niall laughs again. Zayn doesn’t think he’s ever met someone who laughed this much in his life. “You’ve figured out Nicksonville already, haven’t you?” Niall says conspiratorially.

 

Back at his parents' place, Zayn was a bit of a homebody. He preferred to stay locked up in his room alone, reading or plucking out songs on his guitar or writing. The bars in town didn’t hold much attraction for him, what with the throngs of people simply looking for somebody to keep them entertained for the night or drinking in order to have a funny story to tell at parties later on. It all felt so fake to Zayn, so manufactured as to what being a young adult in America was supposed to be.

 

But here in Nicksonville, it’s nice to get out a bit and see people outside the four walls of the Styles guest house, so Zayn decides to meet up with Niall the next night at a bar just outside of town. Harry, of course, has to drive Zayn, so he agrees to come hang out for a bit too.

 

***

 

The bar itself is just as unremarkable as everything else in Nicksonville. The booths have tired red vinyl seats, the tables a stained knotty pine. The carpet is worn and everything reeks of grease, but it seems like there isn’t much competition around to motivate the owners to clean the bar up at all. When they sit down, a waiter greets Niall by name. He orders a pitcher of beer for the table, except Harry asks for water instead.

 

Niall shrugs. “More for me!” he grins.

 

“Don’t drink?” Zayn asks.

 

Harry looks down and shakes his head, his cheeks pink. “I’m not 21,” he reminds Zayn, but it's obvious the bar would have served Harry anyway. They didn’t ask either Niall or Zayn for IDs.

 

Zayn isn’t normally good with strangers, but Niall is easy enough to talk to. He’s full of chatter about work and asks Zayn just the right amount of questions about his bike and his trip that Zayn doesn’t feel like Niall’s prying, just genuinely interested. They’re halfway through the pitcher and a plate of nachos when a short, athletic looking man strides in and directly over to their table. Niall’s face lights up, and he gets a kiss on the cheek from the guy before he turns to face the rest of the table.

 

“This is my boyfriend, Louis,” Niall says. “Hope you don’t mind if he joins us.”

 

Harry chokes on a mouthful of water.

 

“Okay there?” Louis asks. His accent is British and his smile is fake. It doesn’t reach his eyes as he gazes at Harry critically.

 

Harry struggles to regain his composure. “I, um, just, you know, never knew you were one of those?” Harry says to Niall. It’s one of the rudest ways Harry could have told Niall he didn’t realize Niall was gay, but coming from Harry, it just sounds … shocked, rather than rude and accusatory. It’s as if Harry has never met a gay person in his life.

 

“One of those?” Zayn says before he can stop himself. “That’s quite a thing to say.”

 

Harry’s face is beet red, his eyes wide. He looks like a cornered mouse. “I didn’t mean it like …. I just … I,” he stammers.

 

“It’s okay,” Niall says with a smile. “We don’t bite.”

 

Harry nods. “Sure, sure,” he says, but he just stares down at his lap.

 

It’s awkward for the next few moments, and then Harry excuses himself, saying he needs to use the restroom. Zayn is torn, half feeling like he should go with Harry. Zayn doesn’t typically make friends quickly, but Harry is somehow different than a friend. And whenever you go somewhere with someone else, it feels like you’re a unit, regardless of your actual relationship. Then there’s that weird protective streak Zayn’s developing when it comes to Harry. Zayn tries not to think about it and stays at the table instead.

 

“So what brings you to Nicksonville?” Louis asks as he settles in next to Niall.

 

“Accident, actually. I’m on my way out to Denver to stay with some friends. But then Harry here stopped short in front of me in the name of duck preservation, and I broke my leg in the wreck. That’s the only casualty, though.”

 

Louis grins. He seems much more friendly now that Harry’s missing. “Sucks for you then, eh? But Denver? That’s cool. What are you going out there for?”

 

Zayn shrugs and looks down. “My parents aren’t so cool with the gay thing. Couldn’t stay home any more.” He doesn’t want to get into the whole story.

 

“Gay thing?” Niall asks, eyebrows raised. “Does Styles know about that?”

 

Zayn shakes his head. “Hasn’t come up. Don’t think I’ll mention it to him now though.” He looks toward the bathroom from where Harry’s showing no signs of coming back to the table.

 

“Pastor Styles isn’t the biggest supporter of gay rights,” Louis notes.

 

“Obviously,” Niall adds. “I don’t know about Harry, though. Back in high school, he …. I don’t know. It seemed like he used to check some of the guys in our grade out. Never seemed interested in girls. But I haven’t talked to him much since I graduated. Things might have changed since then.”

 

“He was definitely checking out one of my nurses after my surgery,” Zayn says. “Male nurse.”

 

Niall grimaces. “It’s not fair to do, I guess, but I’ve always wondered what would happen if Harry was gay.” He shakes his head and grabs a nacho. “His father definitely wouldn’t be cool about it, though. They march in those parades and stuff. Very anti-gay.”

 

“They just don’t know what they’re missing out on.” Louis says, winking at Zayn.

 

Harry takes forever to come back from the bathroom. It’s kind of rude, and when he finally does return, he just sits pale and silent next to Zayn.

 

Zayn gets along well with Niall and Louis, though, and the conversation flows easily between the three of them. Zayn is surprised by it -- normally, he struggles to talk with strangers -- but Louis shares Zayn’s interest in comics and superheroes, and Niall just seems happy to talk about anything. They work their way through a few pitchers before Louis announces he has to head back home. Zayn’s sorry to see him and Niall leave, especially once he settles into the truck with Harry and things are awkward and quiet.

 

Zayn’s a little bit drunk, so he’s not sure how long he sits through the silence with Harry before calling him out on the way he acted at the bar.

 

“You could have at least talked to Niall. You’ve known him forever,” Zayn accuses.

 

Harry shakes his head. “Not really. I haven’t seen him much since high school. Just … I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

Zayn scowls. “So you’re so offended that Niall turned out to be gay that you can’t even be nice?”

 

“That’s not it,” Harry protests.

 

“Then what is it? Because that wasn’t cool at all. And if you treated Niall like that, how are you going to treat me now?”

 

Harry squints in confusion at Zayn. “What does Niall have to do with you?”

 

“Well we’re both gay, aren’t we?” Zayn argues. “So are you going to shut me out too?”

 

It’s only because Zayn's drunk, he thinks, that he would so offhandedly reveal his sexual orientation to Harry. He's never been so careless about it before. And although this isn’t the best way to tell him, Zayn can’t help but feel hurt when Harry’s quiet for a long time.

 

“So it’s like that, then,” Zayn says when they pass through the center of Nicksonville, not far from Harry’s house, and Harry still hasn’t said a word.

 

Harry sighs. “I just, I didn’t know,” he says, his voice quivering weirdly. Even with just the moonlight breaking the darkness of the truck, Harry seems pale and tense.

 

Zayn doesn’t know what to say to Harry. He wishes his leg wasn’t broken, because if it wasn't, he’d demand Harry stop the truck and would walk the rest of the way to Harry’s house. If his leg wasn’t broken, he realizes, he’d be able to leave Nicksonville now, would never have to see Harry Styles ever again. He probably never would have even met Harry Styles.

 

But his leg is broken and he does know Harry Styles, and even worse, it matters to him that Harry judges him just like Zayn’s parents judge Zayn, that Harry also thinks Zayn is a lesser person just because of who he is. It sucks that Harry seems unable to act normally around Zayn now that he knows. It sucks that Zayn can’t do a thing about it because he’s so reliant on Harry’s help right now.

 

Zayn’s mad about a lot of things, but mostly he’s mad at himself. He should have never opened up to Harry in the first place. He should have known better. Harry's dad is a preacher, and after all, almost everyone else who ever mattered to Zayn failed him before. Why had he expected Harry to be any different?

 

It’s only as Zayn continues to fume in bed that night that he starts to wonder when he began to care about what Harry thinks of him at all.

 

***

 

Zayn’s glad that the next morning is a Sunday because that means the Styles family will be at church and he won’t have to face Harry yet. He can’t get the way Harry acted the night before out of his head. Sure, Harry is a naive, gentle-hearted preacher’s boy from small-town America, but even if he has a problem with gay people, how hard would it have really been for Harry to just sit at the table and make small talk?

 

Plus, even though Zayn clearly knows now how Harry feels about gay people, he can’t stop thinking about the mixed signals Harry is sending when it comes to Harry’s own sexuality. It shouldn’t matter to him what Harry’s deal is —  Zayn knows that better than anyone — that Harry’s sexuality is his own business. But now that he's sober, Zayn is just as confused about Harry as he is angry at him. Zayn keeps replaying the multiple instances when Harry seemed to be checking out men around him in his head, and to add to Zayn’s confusion, there’s everything Niall said about the way Harry was back when they were in high school. But the way Harry reacted to everything last night seems to oppose the idea that Harry could be gay.

 

Zayn remembers what it was like when he first realized he was gay, and it’s possible, a small voice in the back of his head reminds him, that Harry is at a point in his life where he knows who he is and wishes he was someone different. Or maybe Harry doesn’t even know he could be gay. Either make sense given what Niall’s said about the matter. Or maybe Zayn has it all wrong.

 

If he does know one thing, he knows that Harry’s the type to avoid him after the conversation they had in the car the night before, so he’s not surprised when it’s Mrs. Styles who comes in to check on him after church instead of Harry. When Mrs. Styles asks if Zayn would like to join them for dinner that night, he knows he should accept. But it’s not like Zayn is so eager to see Harry either. He doesn’t know what to say, because although he’s annoyed with Harry, there’s a part of him that’s deeply aware of how let down he would be to lose Harry as a friend, if they even are friends in the first place.

 

So Zayn, recognizing he has an easy out with his leg, claims to be in quite a bit of pain and says he wants to keep his leg elevated as much as he can.

 

That’s when Mrs. Styles drops a bomb.

 

“That’s a shame you’re not feeling up to it. Harry’s girlfriend is coming for dinner tonight. I know he’d love for you to meet her,” she says, innocent as a newborn baby.

 

Zayn tries to keep his face neutral, but inside, he’s losing it. Girlfriend? In the just over two weeks Zayn has spent at the Styles home, Harry has never mentioned having a girlfriend. Then again, meeting her could be a good way to settle the debate he’s trying not to have over Harry’s sexuality.

 

“I guess we can see how I feel later tonight?” Zayn suggests.

 

Mrs. Styles grins down at him. “Of course,” she says. She seems to know Zayn will be feeling just fine come dinner time.

 

Harry doesn’t visit all day, a first since the accident, and Zayn tries not to dwell on it. Instead, he focuses on cleaning himself up for dinner. He endures the arduous process of showering with a plastic bag covering the cast on his lower right leg, styles his hair up so it’s spiky in a way that highlights his high cheekbones. He can’t wear skinny jeans like he’d prefer, but he has a pair of boot-cut black jeans with a hole in one of the knees that make him look more curvy than scrawny, so he wrestles those on and pairs them with a fitted white henley. He leaves the buttons undone to better display hints of the tattoos on his chest. Mostly, he refuses to think about why he’s so focused on what he’s wearing when Harry has seen Zayn in just a hospital gown before.

 

The Styles home is pretty nice, certainly much nicer than the one Zayn grew up in. The kitchen is large with big windows looking out into the backyard, stainless steel appliances and gleaming white granite countertops. There’s even a separate dining room, not like at Zayn’s house where a table just claims a corner of the kitchen. The Styles’ dining room features a long wooden table and an opulent silver chandelier, and there’s a large cross hanging on the opposite wall surrounded by neat family photos. Harry is already seated on that side of the table. He’s wearing a green-and-navy plaid shirt that brings out the color of his eyes nicely, and he’s gripping the hand of the blonde-haired girl with blue eyes and a modest, short-sleeved pink dress with a high collar. She’s the epitome of what Zayn would imagine a perfect Christian girl would look like.

 

“Zayn, this is Emily,” Mrs. Styles says. She pulls out a seat for Zayn as the girl — Emily — waves shyly at Zayn.

 

“Nice to meet you,” Zayn says with a short nod. Harry only looks up briefly as Zayn sits down, and Harry avoids making eye contact.

 

“I’m so glad you could join us tonight,” Pastor Styles says. He’s sitting at the head of the table with his hands folded in front of him. “Since you’re our guest, would you like to lead us in grace?”

 

“Um,” Zayn squirms. “I’m Muslim. I don’t really know what to say?”

 

Mrs. Styles glares at her husband, whose smile dims when he catches her look. “That’s fine then,” Pastor Styles says. “Why don’t you say grace, Emily?”

 

Zayn looks down but doesn’t fold his hands in front of him as Emily thanks God for the food, the company, and even Zayn’s improving health. Count saying grace as one thing Emily can do better than Zayn … not that he’s trying to keep track.

 

Emily, Zayn learns as he eats in silence, is very outgoing. She’s basically the opposite of Zayn - she has no tattoos and keeps up a conversation with Harry’s parents easily, even though Harry isn’t joining in. She smiles a lot and seems comfortable in her own skin. She has no tattoos or broken legs, and she even holds her cutlery in the delicately refined way Zayn can never seem to master. Most of all, she’s female. It’s frustrating, though, because Zayn can’t tell if Harry is actually interested in her given that Harry seems locked in his own world, eating quietly without looking up at anyone or saying much.

 

Harry stays quiet until Pastor Styles mentions families on the church’s prayer list. The Horans are one of those families.

 

Harry shoots a quick look at Zayn before turning to his father. “What’s going on with the Horans?” he asks, eyes suddenly alert.

 

“Well,” Pastor Styles says as he reaches for another roll. “It seems their son is involved with another man. Some soccer player from England. Mrs. Horan says it’s been going on for a few months, but she only recently learned what the true nature of the relationship is.”

 

“That’s a shame,” Mrs. Styles says. She sounds truly disappointed. “Maura is such a kind woman. She must be devastated.”

 

“We’ll pray for the whole family, of course,” Pastor Styles notes. “And I told her about a place not far from here that helps people like Niall realize their sin.”

 

Zayn frowns and pushes around the chicken on his plate. Sin? He’s suddenly not very hungry.

 

“Niall is fixing Zayn’s bike,” Harry says, as if that’s at all relevant. “We saw him yesterday.”

 

“Is he? Well that’s fantastic! Harry, this is a perfect opportunity for you to reach out to someone in need and help him find the Lord!”

 

Harry’s eyebrows knit together as he looks back down at his plate. “Me? Help Niall?”

 

“Of course! Weren’t you friendly with him in high school?”

 

Harry shrugs. “Sort of?”

 

“Well then,” Pastor Styles says, pausing to take a bite of his green beans. “You’ll be the perfect person to minister to him. You’re his peer. He’s much more likely to listen to you than me.”

 

Zayn can’t take much more of this. All he can picture is a self-righteous Harry lecturing Niall like there’s something wrong with the way Niall lives, and the image of Harry being a perfect little daddy’s boy and preaching like that infuriates Zayn. He wants to scream at Harry, tell him how ignorant and childish he’s being about all of this. Zayn realizes as he sits at the Styles’ dinner table how much of an intruder he is in their world. He has nothing in common with these people, no desire to live in a world ruled by people who hide their intolerant intentions with a pleasant voice and sweet words that pretend to come from a kind place.

 

There’s especially no room for him there when he considers Emily, perfect, perfect Emily, who is beaming at Harry like he’s a true savior. She is probably everything the Styles always dreamed of for their son, and as much as Zayn wants to hate her, he knows he has no good reason for it other than the fact that she has Harry and he can’t.

 

He’d love to put them all in their place, tell them the world works differently than the way they think it does, that Niall isn’t a sinner and doesn’t need to be fixed, but he doesn’t think that it’s polite for a houseguest to tell his hosts that they’re idiots. He took a similar route with his parents once, and now he’s stranded in Nicksonville with no home to which he can return.

 

Sitting there at that table, listening to the Styles go on and on about that place that can reform Niall if Harry can only convince him to go, Zayn is suddenly too hot, sweat crawling down his spine. All he can think about is getting away from that table and that town as fast as he can.

 

He stands up and gathers his cutlery onto his plate. “I, uh, think I need to go lie down,” Zayn says. He refuses to look at Harry or Emily. “I’m not feeling well. Must be the pain medication.”

 

“Oh, Zayn, of course,” Mrs. Styles says. “Don’t worry about your plate. We’ll take care of it for you. Do you need help getting back to bed?”

 

“No, that’s okay,” Zayn says, nodding shortly at Mrs. Styles. “I’ll be fine.”

 

Zayn crutches away before anyone can say anything else to him. He still hasn’t looked at Harry, but he can feel Harry’s eyes following him as he leaves the room.

 

***

 

It’s late that night, nearly midnight, when Harry knocks on the door of the guest house. When he comes in, he doesn’t make himself comfortable like usual, instead opting to lean against the wall just next to the door. Zayn doesn’t get up to greet him, either. He stays in bed, leg propped up because despite it being an excuse, it actually does hurt. Harry stands there silently, chewing on his lower lip and playing with the buttons on the cuffs of his sleeve.

 

“What do you want?” Zayn concedes once it’s obvious Harry isn’t going to speak up.

 

Harry stares down at his shoes. “I, um, I wanted to talk.”

 

“Really? You’re doing a bang up job of that so far,” Zayn says. He scrolls through his phone for a few seconds, pretends like he has someone better to talk to, but Harry doesn’t leave. Zayn sighs. “What do you want to talk about, then? The girlfriend you haven’t said anything about since I’ve been here?”

 

Harry’s head snaps up, caught. “You don’t know anything about that.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Zayn agrees. “That’s what happens when you don’t talk about someone.”

 

“It’s not, like, a rule that you have to talk about your girlfriend all the time if you have one,” Harry says grudgingly. He’s managed to undo the button on the cuff of his sleeve from playing with it. Instead of fixing it, he just shoves his sleeve up.

 

“It’s not a rule, no, but most people our age who have a girlfriend find time to mention her within the course of a few weeks.”

 

“Why does it matter to you anyway?” Harry asks. Zayn doesn’t have a good answer for that question. All he knows is that seeing Harry with his girlfriend makes anger burn in the pit of his stomach. It makes him want to scream at Harry, shake him until Harry comes to his senses and realizes … what, exactly? That Zayn and Niall both think he’s gay? Why does it even matter to Zayn if Harry is gay?

 

 _Because you like him_ , a voice deep inside of Zayn says.  _Because you want him, and you can’t have him if he’s not gay._  He does his very best to ignore that voice, but it seems to get harder with every passing day.

 

Zayn must stay quiet for a while, because eventually Harry sighs and moves to the couch, perching on the edge like a cat ready to flee at the slightest provocation.

 

“Listen, I know you’re mad at me,” Harry begins. “And I don’t know what I can do to make it better. But, I just, I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

 

“Well you were a total dick last night,” Zayn retorts. “You ignored Niall and Louis all night and then when I told you I was gay in the car, you stopped talking to me too. Then you sit there tonight with your perfect girlfriend and your perfect family and your perfect house and go on and on about how you’re praying for Niall and how you’ll minister to him and lead him away from sin or whatever all while I’m sitting right across from you. And you knew the whole time that I’m just like Niall.”

 

Harry just shakes his head. “My life isn’t perfect,” he mutters.

 

“Oh yeah?” Zayn shoots back. His heart is racing, the anger he’d been holding in all rushing out. “When have you ever had to do anything that was hard?”

 

Harry transforms as he takes in Zayn’s words, all traces of innocence leaving his expression as his face darkens and his eyes squint in anger. When he speaks, his voice is eerily quiet.

 

“When have I ever had to do anything that was hard?” Harry breathes. “Every fucking day of my life. You don’t know anything about me or my family or my girlfriend or my life. It’s so far from perfect you wouldn’t even believe.”

 

Harry stops and takes a deep breath. His eyes shine with unshed tears, and Zayn wants to apologize, to take it all back so Harry won’t look so hurt. He doesn’t say anything, though, paralyzed under Harry’s glare.

 

“Do you have any idea what it’s like?” Harry asks, “to be the preacher’s son? To live in my father's shadow? To have to be perfect all the time so I don’t reflect badly on him and his church? To have my father care about everybody in this area except me? Do you have any idea what that’s like? If my father really knew me, he’d hate me,” Harry confesses. “And I’ve tried so hard for years — years — to fix myself, to try to force myself to be different, to be normal, so I can live the life that he and God want me to live. But it seems like no matter how hard I try, I can’t change. And I have to face that, face how much of a failure I am, every time I walk into that church or any time someone asks me about my dad. I hate it but I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make it better.”

 

Zayn shakes his head slowly at Harry, who is wiping furiously at the tears skidding down his cheeks. “Fix yourself?” Zayn asks, quiet and gentle. “What are you trying to fix?”

 

Harry breathes in shakily through his nose, bites at his lip again. He looks away for a moment, like he’s trying to collect himself, then turns back to Zayn. “Do you know why I left the table last night?” Harry finally says. He barely waits for a response. “I left because I started having a panic attack. I couldn’t breathe. I had to get away. Every thing that Niall and Louis have, that’s what I’ve always wanted even though I know it’s wrong.”

 

Zayn knows what Harry is saying even if Harry didn’t directly say it.

 

“It’s not wrong,” Zayn argues. “Harry, it’s … you have to know it’s not wrong.”

 

“But it is,” Harry protests. “I believe in God. I believe in the Bible, and the Bible says it’s wrong.” Zayn’s stomach drops at the tortured look on Harry’s face. And yeah, as hard as it was for Zayn to come out to his parents, at least he never truly thought his own lifestyle was wrong. Zayn doesn’t know how to comfort him.

 

“How long have you known?” Zayn asks. “That you’re gay? I mean … are you gay?”

 

Harry looks down at the bed. “I can’t be gay. I don’t know. But, like, it’s always been like this. Like I look at girls and I just, I don’t feel anything. But then I see guys sometimes and I dream about guys and … I just, I don’t know. I don’t know how to talk about this.”

 

Harry’s voice trails off in a whine. Zayn knows he should leave it, let Harry figure things out for himself, but now that he has an in, he can’t help himself from pushing farther.

 

“Have you ever done anything, like, with a guy?” Zayn asks.

 

Harry shakes his head vigorously. “Of course not,” he says, breathless.

 

“But you’ve wanted to?”

 

Harry is quiet for a long time. He stares down at his lap, examines his fingernails. Zayn doesn’t dare move even a muscle so as not to jolt Harry out of this place, but when the silence simply stretches on, Zayn can’t help but prod.

 

“Harry,” Zayn says quietly. “It’s okay. It’s just me. I won’t judge you either way, I promise.”

 

Harry nods, seemingly gathering strength to speak up. “I think about doing stuff with guys,” Harry admits. “I just don’t know how.”

 

It’s now or never, Zayn knows, as his heart pounds away in his chest. “Would you,” Zayn starts, “would you maybe want to try something with me? Now?”

 

Zayn has fooled around with a lot of guys, but even with his first, he was never as jumpy as he is now.  He holds his breath as Harry looks up at him, looks Zayn dead in the eye. Harry’s hands are trembling but his gaze is steady as he nods, slowly, just once.

 

So Zayn pulls Harry to him, pulls and pulls and pulls until Harry is sitting carefully in his lap. Harry’s squinting at him, like he’s trying to cover his fear with confusion, and Zayn knows the best way to get over a fear is to dive right in and face it, so he leans forward and covers Harry’s lips with his own.

 

It’s not an electric spark, a sudden light bulb declaration of love that rings through Zayn’s body. But it is different. Normally his kisses are just careless, fast, a means to an end. With Harry, it’s so comfortable. So immediately satisfying, like putting on a sweatshirt fresh out of the dryer or the scent of fresh air after a plane flight.

 

Harry is kissing back slowly, timidly, like he wants to hold back but can’t and that’s not what this is about, so Zayn gets bolder. He licks the seam of Harry’s lips, still a bit tart from whatever he had for dessert, and Harry opens up reflexively for him so Zayn can explore Harry’s mouth, a textured smooth silkiness like cashmere. Harry squeaks and draws in a quick breath through his nose when Zayn sucks gently. Harry’s hands, fisted in Zayn’s t-shirt, subconsciously tug Zayn forward.

 

Zayn wanted before, but now that he has Harry squirming in his lap, he wants on a whole new level. He wants to uncover every bit of Harry there is, wants to explore his body, wants to find out what makes Harry feel good, wants to introduce Harry to an entirely new world that Harry never knew existed. His stomach is tight with desire, his hands gripping Harry like he never wants to separate.

 

But he knows that Harry is so, so new to this and he knows he has to take it slow. So although it’s torture, he pulls away from Harry, breathing hard as Harry just sits there in Zayn’s lap. Harry’s eyes are closed, his mouth plump and red and wet, and he doesn’t do anything for a while, just stays quiet until he finally whispers, voice broken, “I can’t be gay.”

 

Zayn’s heart shatters.

 

***

 

Zayn’s mom has always accused him of running from his problems. “It won’t solve anything,” she used to say, “if you won’t stick around long enough to fix things.” He thinks briefly of her when he calls Niall the next morning, but it’s not running, not really, when he had spent the whole night at the Styles, even after Harry, face ashen, basically ran out on him. Zayn was the one who stuck around. Harry didn’t.

 

So Zayn’s not running when he tells Mrs. Styles that morning that he found a place to stay closer to the hospital, that he appreciates her hospitality, but he doesn’t want to infringe on her family anymore. That’s facing his problems. He could have left a note or not told her at all.

 

Niall drops him off at the apartment he shares with Louis before heading back to work. It’s so refreshingly different than the Styles’. Niall and Louis live in a converted loft in the city, a charming space full of big windows and exposed brick. There are signs of life everywhere, from the dirty plates stacked on the coffee table to the clothes tossed haphazardly by the foot of the couch. It’s a one bedroom, so Zayn will have to sleep on the couch, but Zayn is just grateful to have a roof over his head.

 

Louis has the day off from training, so he’s glad to help Zayn settle in. “Plus, you can tell me all about whatever happened at the Styles’,” Louis grins. “I love me some good gossip.”

 

Zayn only gives him the basics. He doesn’t tell Louis that it’s Niall the Styles were praying for, just says it was a church member. He tells Louis about what happened after dinner, what Harry said, that he kissed Harry and Harry immediately regretted it.

 

“And then I left,” Zayn says from his end of the couch. He draws his knee into his chest and rests his bad leg on the coffee table. “Not much more to it.”

 

Louis gazes thoughtfully at Zayn. “Right, but what did he say exactly?” Louis asks.

 

“That he can’t be gay,” Zayn snorts. “How bad of a kiss must it have been for him to rule out the entire male gender based on it?”

 

“Do you really think the kiss turned him off of men?” Louis asks doubtfully. “Sounds to me like he just got spooked.”

 

Zayn shrugs. “Either way, he’s not interested, so … not much of a point of me staying there, is there?”

 

“Suppose so,” Louis tuts.

 

“It’s probably for the best,” Zayn reasons. “It’s not like I can stick around here once I’m healed up.”

 

“Yeah, it’s off to Denver, right?”

 

Zayn nods.

 

“Why are you going to Denver, anyway?” Louis asks. “Got a job?”

 

“No,” Zayn shrugs. “Couple of my friends live there. Figure I’ll just stay with them until I figure my life out.”

 

“Figure your life out?” Louis frowns into his cup of tea. “I don’t know anybody who has their life figured out at our age. I reckon I’ll never figure out mine.”

 

Zayn laughs. “Yeah, but you have it good. Look at this place. It’s sick.” Zayn gestures toward the tall windows, the giant television, but Louis seems unimpressed. “Anyway,” Zayn smirks. “You’ve got Niall.”

 

Louis smiles wistfully. “Yeah,” he concedes. He sits like that for a moment before he appears to snap out of it. “Enough serious talk, then,” Louis resolves. “Want to play Fifa?”

 

And that’s how life is with Louis - simple, relaxed, not serious at all. When Louis’s home, they play video games and watch reruns of Scooby Doo and The Simpsons, both of which Louis has the full box sets for. Zayn tries to write some songs for the first time since the accident, but all he can think about is heartbreak and coffee-colored curls, and he doesn’t want to write about that just yet. He sleeps a lot, reads a bit, calls Danny to update him on his leg and tells him he thinks it will only be a few more weeks before he can leave. It’s a hopeful estimate, but Zayn does have an appointment scheduled for a few days away to get his stitches removed. He tries not to think about how after meeting Harry, he’s become less excited about leaving for Denver.

 

In fact, Zayn spends most of his time trying not to think about Harry. He tries to catch himself when he realizes he’s wondering what Harry’s doing at that exact moment, how Harry must have felt when he came home and Zayn was gone, if Harry even cared or if he was relieved to get Zayn out of his life. He wonders if Harry thinks much about their kiss, hopes Harry does because Zayn can’t stop thinking about it. He wakes up in the middle of the night a couple of times, sweaty, riled up and hard, images of Harry tugging Zayn to him, laying beneath him, curling into him playing on a loop in Zayn’s mind. One time, Zayn guiltily jacks off on Louis’s couch, too tired to crutch his way to the bathroom but too desperate to calm himself down. He catches most of it in his t-shirt, hiding like he hasn’t done since he was a teenager and his mom still washed his sheets.

 

But Zayn doesn’t expect to hear from Harry again, so when Niall comes home three nights later saying he has a guest, Zayn isn’t prepared to see those hauntingly familiar curls trailing in behind Niall.

 

“What have we here,” Louis asks with a trace of hostility.

 

Harry toes off his shoes in the doorway. He hunches over a bit more than usual at Louis’s words.

 

Niall breezes in and kiss Louis briefly. “Chill, babe. Let’s go to our room, give them some privacy, okay?”

 

Louis looks to Zayn as if he’s asking for permission. Zayn’s not sure what Harry wants, but Harry has a way of softening Zayn, of getting Zayn to let him in when Zayn would normally shut someone out. And the way Harry is standing in the doorway, arms crossed and hugged unsurely into his chest does exactly that. Zayn nods at Louis. “It’s okay,” Zayn says. “I’ll be fine.”

 

Niall rewards Zayn with a smile and drags Louis into the bedroom with him. The door clicks shut and Harry hesitates for just a moment before inching over to sit on the opposite end of the couch from Zayn.

 

Zayn stays silent, waits for Harry to break the ice.

 

“You didn’t have to leave,” Harry says after a long silence. And that’s how it always is with Harry, no beating around the bush, as if Harry doesn’t have any idea what self-preservation means. Then again, Harry does hide a pretty controversial part of himself from everyone the majority of the time. Zayn thinks of that final dinner at the Styles house. It reminds Zayn of why he’s glad he got out.

 

He doesn’t say that to Harry, though. He feeds him an excuse instead.

 

“Niall and Louis live closer to the hospital,” Zayn tells Harry. “I’m starting physical therapy soon. It makes sense to stay here.”

 

Harry clears his throat. “I guess what I meant to say is, um, I didn’t want you to leave.”

 

Zayn doesn’t know how to respond to that, doesn’t know what Harry wants him to say. That he’ll just keep living in the Styles guest house? Hang out with Harry like he had been? Pretend nothing happened between the two of them? Zayn’s not hiding in anybody’s house anymore.  

 

Harry rubs at his face, the agitation clear, but when he realizes Zayn isn’t going to say anything, he sighs and continues.

 

“You have to realize that, like, the only person I’ve ever kissed is Emily and it wasn’t anything like with you.” Harry turns to face Zayn then, his eyes a clear but tortured green. “With you, it was like … I wanted so much more. Like, I don’t know, when I kiss her it feels like I’m doing what I’m supposed to do, but when I kissed you it was just, like, what I wanted? And I wanted to keep going and it was scary because what does that mean? About me, you know?”

 

Harry knots his fingers together, cracks his knuckles and keeps talking.

 

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since that night,” Harry confesses. “Like I dream about you sometimes, and it’s … I can’t control it. I know I said I wasn’t gay, but like, you left and it hurt so bad, like you didn’t want to give me a chance.”

 

“You didn’t want to give me a chance,” Zayn interjects. Just hearing Harry mention the aftermath of the kiss is like another punch to Zayn’s gut. But it’s worse now, because Zayn is confused. Harry is talking as if Zayn’s the one who abandoned him, like Zayn is the one who broke his heart, like Harry hadn’t ended the kiss by saying “I’m not gay.”

 

But Harry just keeps speaking. “I’ve been talking to Niall a lot the last few days. I told him what happened - I hope you don’t mind - and he’s been helping me. He says I can be gay and still be Christian. And I don’t know, I don’t know if that’s true, but all I know is I just really, really, really want you.”

 

Zayn’s heart is in his throat. Because yeah, Harry said he wasn’t gay the other night, but now he’s acting like Zayn can have him if he wants him, like Harry’s willing to try. Zayn is just waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the catch that must come with getting what you want. But Harry doesn’t say anything else. He just sits there, cheeks adorably pink and lips settled into an unsure pout, irresistibly innocent despite it all. Zayn is so, so confused, but he knows what he wants in this moment.

 

“Harry,” Zayn rasps. “Can I kiss you?”

 

Harry doesn’t answer, just smiles and scoots closer to Zayn, so Zayn meets him halfway, slips a hand to cup behind Harry’s ear, leans in and kisses him. Zayn keeps it chaste at first, mouth shut as he kisses Harry gently, short kisses at first until Harry sighs softly and tongues at the seam of Zayn’s lips until Zayn opens up.

 

Kissing Harry is just as good as Zayn remembers, but it’s so charged. Harry is so soft and pliant and lush and all Zayn wants to do is wreck him, make him beg for more, get rough with him. He bites at Harry, just a little, just to test, and Harry whines and clambers into Zayn’s lap. Zayn can feel Harry’s dick, a hard line against his stomach, and it leaves Zayn breathless with desire.

 

He pulls away from Harry’s lips, rests his head in the crook of Harry’s neck to catch his breath as Harry subconsciously grinds, just a little, a very slight rock of his hips into Zayn’s. It ignites something within Zayn, makes him want to show Harry how good this can be, so he slides his hands down Harry’s body, grips at Harry’s ass and rocks his hips up hard into the spot just under Harry’s cock. Harry groans out a small “oh,” then turns his head, seeks out Zayn’s lips as if he’s crazed with it, kisses Zayn all messy and desperate.

 

Now that they’ve started, Zayn can’t bring himself to stop, keeps kneading at Harry’s ass as he rocks up, up, up into Harry. It’s like every nerve in Zayn’s body is tuned into where he’s touching Harry, small sparks feeding into the fire burning in Zayn’s gut for Harry, sweet, innocent little Harry who is positively writhing in Zayn’s lap with pleasure.

 

It doesn’t take much for Harry to lose his ability to kiss, his mouth slack and unfocused against Zayn’s. So Zayn noses through Harry’s hair instead, inhales the scent of boy and flowery shampoo and a hint of sweat as he keeps rutting against Harry, their dicks lined up now and rubbing against each other.

 

Harry is so, so hard, and Zayn wants to rip Harry’s pants open, slide a hand down Harry’s body and really feel him, but he can’t stop thrusting against him long enough to do it.

 

“You’re so fucking hot,” Zayn whispers into the shell of Harry’s ear. “Fucking gorgeous.”

 

Harry whines, high and sharp, and rocks harder into Zayn. “You going to come for me, babe?” Zayn asks. “Come in your pants, just from this?”

 

Harry moans and nods, drops his forehead to rest on Zayn’s shoulder as his hips speed up. “Do it,” Zayn whispers as he squeezes Harry’s ass, pulls his cheeks apart as much as Harry’s pants will allow. “Come for me.”

 

And Harry does, comes with a low groan as Zayn keeps rubbing his crotch against Harry’s, a warmth flooding between the two of them. Zayn hates coming in his pants, so when Harry falls slack against him, Zayn lets go of Harry’s ass and slips a hand between them, shoves the waistband of his shorts and boxers down and pulls himself out without a thought. Harry turns his head to watch as Zayn jacks himself off, quick and rough because he’s already so close. It’s when Harry whispers, “Yeah, keep doing that,” that Zayn comes, spurts of it catching on both of their shirts.

 

Spent and sweaty, Zayn leans his head back and collapses against the back of the couch. Harry follows, simple as that, and Zayn lets him.

 

***

 

Zayn isn’t a touchy feely person. He keeps his hugs short, never stays around after a good fuck, can’t even cuddle with his younger sisters. Harry, evidently, is the opposite because he won’t get off Zayn. He stays in Zayn’s lap, leaves his arms looped around Zayn’s neck, rests his head on Zayn’s shoulder, and Zayn resolves that moving Harry would be like waking a sleeping baby. So he doesn’t. He’s not snuggling with Harry. He’s just letting Harry be for a little bit.

 

Zayn is half waiting for another gay crisis meltdown, but Harry doesn’t indulge him. Instead he lays there on top of Zayn and it’s nice, really nice. Maybe, Zayn wonders, maybe he can convince Harry to come with him to Denver and they can be like this all the time. It helps that Harry’s boosting Zayn’s ego a bit by musing about the differences between hooking up with Zayn and kissing his girlfriend.

 

“Kissing’s as much as I’ve ever done,” Harry confesses as he twines his fingers into Zayn’s hair. “I never, like, thought about doing anything else.”

 

“Never?” Zayn asks. “Like, you don’t even jack off thinking of fucking someone?”

 

Harry flinches at the word ‘fucking’. “I couldn’t really, um, picture it? Like I’d try to think about Emily or some girl and just … like, I don’t know. My brain didn’t go there.”

 

Zayn traces his fingertips up and down Harry’s spine and tries to imagine never thinking about sex when masturbating. “So what do you think about, then?”

 

Harry blushes even though he’s sitting on Zayn’s lap with a cum-stained shirt. He burrows further into Zayn’s shoulder to hide his face. “Promise you won’t make fun of me?” he asks, his voice small.

 

“Harry.”

 

“I need you to promise.”

 

Zayn sighs. “I promise I won’t make fun of you for being a perfectly normal guy and jacking off.”

 

Harry flashes him a small smile. “Okay. Um, well, I’d try really hard not to, but mostly I’d like, think about people’s shoulders and like, bare chests.”

 

“That’s all?” Zayn asks.

 

“Well,” Harry trails. “Like, sometimes I’d think about coming on them? That’s weird. I’m sorry. That’s weird.”

 

Zayn rolls his eyes. “It’s not weird. Pretty tame, actually.”

 

Harry frowns and pulls back to look at Zayn.

 

“Well what do you think of when you do it then?”

 

 _You_ , Zayn nearly says.  _Wrecking you until your hair is a mess and your face and chest are all flushed with it and you’re sweaty and begging for more, totally lost in it._

 

“Fucking guys. Hard,” Zayn says instead.

 

Harry looks down at his lap. Zayn’s pants are still undone, but he’s tucked back in his boxers.

 

“I don’t think I’m ready for that yet,” Harry whispers, more to himself than to Zayn.

 

Zayn doesn’t say anything, just pulls Harry closer because, well, it feels nice to have Harry warm and wrapped around him.

 

“Are you mad?” Harry asks.

 

Zayn shakes his head and kisses Harry’s temple. “No. Course not.” Because he’s not mad, not really. It’s just … he wants Harry more than he’s ever wanted anyone else. He knows it wouldn’t be right to do anything as intense as actual sex yet, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want it anyway. Maybe they could try that once they get to Denver.

 

“You just seem like you’ve had a lot of, like, sex?” Harry continues. “And I don’t want to, um. I know I can’t really live up to any of it yet.”

 

“Harry, that’s not,” Zayn says, then stops. This is starting to feel a lot like Harry’s saying no to doing anything with Zayn, and given that Zayn now knows what it feels like to kiss Harry, knows what Harry looks like mid-orgasm, Zayn can’t have Harry pulling away completely because he thinks Zayn has a problem with him not being ready for real sex. “I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable doing, okay?” Zayn reassures.

 

Harry nods and slips a hand up Zayn’s shirt to feel where his heart is beating. Zayn tries to stay still so Harry won’t see how much it’s affecting him. They’re quiet for a few moments as Zayn attempts to focus on things that aren’t Harry, sitting comfortable and pliant in his lap. Cactuses, he tries. Stupid, middle-America preachers who don’t know anything about anything. No. That doesn’t work, because then he just thinks of Harry again.

 

“I don’t know how to tell my parents,” Harry finally says to break the silence.

 

“Do you want to?” Zayn asks. It doesn’t do much to distract him from the image of a furious Pastor Styles.  

 

Harry frowns at Zayn as if Zayn is totally crazy. “I have to tell them,” Harry insists. “They’re my parents.”

 

“You could wait,” Zayn suggests. He remembers that first conversation with his own parents, the way they said nothing at first, just stared at him like a stranger. He remembers struggling to fall asleep that night while he could hear his mother crying from the other room. He remembers that last conversation too, the way they tried to convince him to let them change him. “Don’t tell them just yet,” Zayn urges. “Or, like tell them and then come with me to Denver, maybe.”

 

That’s a better idea, Zayn reasons. It will give them time to rage over it without Harry falling victim to the meltdown that’s sure to happen. They won’t be able to send Harry to one of those places that teach you not to be gay if Harry is all the way in Denver. But it’s also Zayn going out on a ledge for Harry, trying to see how Harry feels about him.

 

And Harry lets Zayn down. He scuttles off Zayn’s lap and stands up, stares at Zayn like he’s crazy.

 

“Denver?” Harry finally spits out. “You’re still going to Denver?”

 

“Of course I’m going, Harry. As soon as I’m able. And you could come with me.”

 

“I can’t go to Denver,” Harry protests.

 

“Why not? You can start over there. You won’t have to worry about living up to anybody’s expectations. You can just be you.”

 

But Harry just shakes his head and paces, fidgeting with the neckline of his shirt. “I thought,” he starts, then stops himself and shakes his head. “How can you leave?”

 

“Harry, I’m not … I never meant to be here,” Zayn argues, his heart sinking. “I would never have been here if I hadn’t broken my leg.”

 

“But you did and then we, you know,” Harry gestures wildly, and no, Zayn doesn’t know.

 

“We what?”

 

“We did this!” Harry shouts. “You kissed me. And, like, today. All of that happened. How can you just leave? I’ve never told anyone about any of this, never told anyone how I feel about guys and like, you can’t just leave me. Please, don’t leave me.”

 

There’s a lump the size of Texas in Zayn’s throat, and it only grows as Harry starts to cry, fists furiously wiping at his eyes as if he’s trying to put on a brave face for Zayn. He wants more than anything to reach out and pull Harry back onto his lap, shush him, promise him the world, but Zayn can’t stay. He knows this more than anything. Nicksonville, or what he knows of it so far, is just as intolerant as people back home are, and Zayn is done with that part of his life. He’s not going to hide away again, not from a preacher like Harry’s father or anyone else.

 

“I can’t stay here,” Zayn says. “I can’t.”

 

Harry looks at him one last time, watery green eyes and quivering red lips burning into Zayn’s memory. Zayn wants to wipe that look off Harry’s face, forget that he’s the one who made Harry look so betrayed, but he’s frozen in place, paralyzed. He has no choice. Why can’t Harry understand that?

 

If anything, Harry seems to get that Zayn won’t change his mind, because he shakes his head sadly and pulls on his shoes.

 

“Fine,” Harry says as he looks everywhere but at Zayn. “I hope you have a safe trip.”

 

And that’s it. Harry leaves, just like that, quiet and broken. He doesn’t even slam the door behind him.

 

***

 

Zayn doesn’t eat much for dinner that night, and when Niall and Louis try to ask about what happened with Harry, he brushes them off, says it doesn't matter.

 

It shouldn’t matter, is the thing. Harry Styles is not Zayn’s type. Zayn doesn’t go for innocent virgins who abide by mommy and daddy’s every request. He likes men with an edge to them, men with a chip on their shoulders, men more like him.

 

But as he tosses and turns, he can’t help but picture Harry’s face right before Harry left, the way Harry went blank, hardened as if Zayn left an indelible dent on his soul. It’s one thing to hurt a guy who has been hurt before, but it’s totally different to be the first to break someone’s heart.

 

Zayn never wants to do it again.

 

He has to stick around Nicksonville for a little longer though. He still needs to be evaluated by the physical therapist before he can be cleared to walk without crutches or drive. The three days between the fight with Harry and the appointment with the physical therapist are some of the worst of Zayn’s life. He can’t talk to Harry, he doesn’t want to talk to Niall or Louis about anything significant, he can’t call home, and he doesn’t want to talk to Danny in Denver because it’s just a cruel reminder of everything he can’t have there. He’s completely and totally alone in the world, and he can’t do a thing about it.

 

So he stays quiet and minds his own business until the day of his first physical therapy appointment. Zayn evaluates himself just as much as the therapist does, notes along with her how little he’s able to bend his leg, how weak the muscles are. It’s no surprise when she tells him it will be at least a month until he’s able to ride his bike. It’s just like how the saying goes: when it rains it pours.

 

Louis is a little late picking him up, and it’s yet another cruel reminder of all of the ways in which Zayn is stuck.

 

“How would you feel about me storing my bike at your place for now and buying a plane ticket to Denver?” Zayn asks as he climbs into the truck.

 

Louis raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “So the appointment went well then?”

 

Zayn slams the door of the truck shut a little harder than necessary. “Can’t fucking walk. Can’t ride my fucking bike. Won’t be able to do anything for who knows how long.”

 

“A real disaster, then,” Louis notes sarcastically. “You know,” Louis starts, glancing thoughtfully at Zayn. “It might do you some good to stick around for a bit.”

 

Zayn snorts. “Yeah? How so?”

 

Louis shrugs and keeps his eyes on the road. He avoids Zayn’s glare easily. “Well, you can come to some of my footie games. You’re good company for Niall. And it will give you time to fix things with Harry.”

 

Louis sneaks in the last part as if Zayn won’t notice. Zayn isn’t in the mood to let him get away with it. “I can’t fix things with Harry.”

 

“Maybe you just think you can’t fix things with Harry,” Louis says. Zayn’s not sure when Louis decided to become a psychologist. He’s not even good at it. “Now I know you think things between the two of you are irreplaceable, or whatever that word is,” Louis continues.

 

“Irreparable.”

 

“Right. Irreparable. But Niall says he’s never seen Harry as ready to challenge his parents on something as he is about the two of you. Niall thinks the opportunity is yours if you’re willing to take it, or however you want to put it.”

 

“What does Niall know about Harry and I?” Zayn asks, crossing his arms across his chest.

 

“Who do you think has been talking to Harry practically 24/7 these past few days?” Louis asks. “It’s starting to make me jealous, if I’m honest. And just because you haven’t told Niall doesn’t mean he doesn’t know.”

 

Those words weigh on Zayn all day. He even loses 20-0 to Louis in FIFA because he's so distracted by what Harry could have possibly told Niall to make Niall think there’s a chance. Has Harry changed his mind about Denver? And if so, why hasn’t Harry come to him?

 

Niall doesn’t get home until late that night, and he insists on showering before joining Zayn and Louis for dinner, which is stupid, really, because they’re just eating takeout pizza on the couch like usual. Then Niall gets into a long-winded story about this classic car they’re fixing up, and Zayn has never been good at confrontation, so he doesn’t bring up Harry at all until Niall starts in on it.

 

“Harry texted me about you today,” Niall tells him. “He wanted to know how your physical therapy appointment went.”

 

“Does he do that often?” Zayn asks. It’s not anywhere close to the “what has he told you about me” that Zayn intended to ask.

 

That’s what Louis’s there for, though. “I told Zayn you’ve been talking to Harry,” Louis says. “He’s just being too much of a twat to ask you what Harry said about him.”

 

“I’m sitting right here,” Zayn protests. He kicks Louis with his good foot.

 

Niall doesn’t seem to care though. He just shrugs and takes another piece of pizza. “Did I ever tell you about what happened when I came out to my parents?” he asks.

 

“No. Don’t see what that has to do with Harry though.”

 

“Well, they weren’t exactly pleased with the whole gay thing, as you can probably guess from what the Styles have said,” Niall continues serenely as if Zayn isn’t glaring at him. “My parents aren’t as heavy into the church thing as Harry’s are, but it was a definite adjustment. It helps that I’ve got a job and a place to go, so I didn’t have to listen to them yell at me when it got really unbearable sometimes.”

 

“I told Harry if he comes with me to Denver, he won’t have to deal with that stuff either,” Zayn says. “I tried to give him an out. He wouldn’t take it.”

 

Niall nods. “I know. But think about it. I wouldn’t have gone all the way to Denver, either. My parents still aren’t thrilled, but we’re working on it,” he says. “They’ve met Louis. They’ve seen where I live. Things aren’t perfect, they might not ever be, but they’re okay. And I don’t ever want to lose them. They’re my parents. You know? How could I just leave them to deal with it on their own without staying here to stick up for myself, show them how happy I am?”

 

Zayn sighs and thinks of his mom. He wonders how she would feel if she ever saw him happy with a man. He remembers how when he first got his tattoos, she hated them, but as he kept getting more, she started to warm up to them a bit, even showing photos of some of them proudly to her friends. He wonders what she’s doing right now, if she’s worried about him, if she’s still as mad as she was when he left. He knows his dad is still mad. How could he not be? His only son turned out to be a massive disappointment.

 

Harry’s dad will be way worse than that.

 

“Not all parents are like yours,” Zayn says. He fidgets with a loose string from his shorts. “It’s cool that your parents are trying, but like, sometimes it doesn’t work out.”

 

“I know that,” Niall says. “But don’t you think you should give Harry the chance to work it out for himself?”

 

“I’m not telling him what to do,” Zayn frowns. He hates being told what to do enough that he knows better than to force other people into anything. “I’m just trying to make it easier for him.”

 

Niall grabs another slice of pizza and doesn’t even bother with a plate, just puts his feet up on the coffee table and takes a bite. “Sometimes,” Niall says with his mouth full of cheese and sauce, “what seems easier at first just makes life harder in the long run.”

 

Zayn doesn’t say anything back, doesn’t try to argue his case, because given the way his own life has worked out, given what it’s like to have no contact with his parents, maybe Niall might have a point. Maybe.

 

***

 

Zayn is a man with two choices, he realizes as he tries to fall asleep on the couch that night. He can buy a solo plane ticket to Denver, get a job there, save up to ship his bike back and try to forget Harry Styles even exists, or he can stick around in Nicksonville for a little while longer, talk to Harry and see where life takes him.

 

He tosses and turns all night because somewhere between breaking his leg for the sake of a flock of ducks and winding up crashing on a professional soccer player’s couch for an undetermined amount of time, he’s developed this thing for a small town boy with a big heart and a gentle nature. Zayn has never felt as at ease with anyone as he does with Harry, has never cared as much for anyone outside of his family as he does for Harry. And it’s weird, because Harry is his total opposite. He’s quirky and funny and kind to a fault, a total charmer who lives to please people, and Zayn wonders what the world would be like if everyone could be a little more like Harry. The duck population would thrive, for one.

 

He knows as he watches the numbers on his phone tick closer and closer to dawn that at the very least, he’ll have to talk to Harry. He can’t imagine leaving without seeing him one last time, maybe even kissing him one last time, although that might be too much to ask.

 

So Niall does a little investigative work that morning and finds out Harry will be working in the afternoon right before Louis’s practice that day, meaning Louis can drop Zayn off at the church. It’s probably the last place Zayn would choose to have this talk, but beggars can’t be choosers, right? Niall and Louis are all excited about it, clucking like an old pair of aunts in the bathroom doorway while watching Zayn style his hair, then re-do it, then flatten it out completely to go for a bit of a softer look. It looks similar to the way it did that time Harry couldn’t take his eyes off Zayn while Zayn was loaded with pain pills and struggling to get himself to and from the bathroom. It wasn't Zayn's finest moment, but Harry seemed to enjoy the look, so. 

 

The car ride over is like waiting for a teacher to hand back a test you know you did really badly on. Zayn’s heart is racing and his hands are sweaty, but he’s trying to pretend he’s fine for Louis’s sake. Louis seems to pick up on Zayn’s anxiety though, and when he drops him off he tells Zayn that Niall can skive off work for a few minutes to pick Zayn up if he needs.

 

Zayn has never been to a church before, but the ones he’s seen on TV have always been small buildings with rows of pews lined up neatly to face an unassuming stage one step off the floor where the pastor and choir sit. Harry’s church is nothing like those. It’s huge, three floors at least, and he walks into a multi-story foyer filled with empty clusters of couches and chairs. There’s a wall with a bunch of double doors in it, like he’s at some sort of theater. He has no idea how to find Harry here. Zayn is tempted to just call Niall and get out of there, but he’s worried Niall told Harry that Zayn would be there, and Zayn doesn’t want to let Harry down again.

 

So he pokes open one of the double doors, and there on a giant stage in front of tiers of movie-theater style seats, there’s Harry.

 

Harry must have somehow heard the doors open or maybe the squeak of Zayn’s crutches echoing through the huge room because he whips around, sees Zayn and frowns.

 

“Zayn?” he calls out, loud enough so Zayn can hear him. “What are you doing here?”

 

Zayn hobbles forward as best as he can with the crutches, trying to close the space between the two of them. “I needed to talk to you,” he says. “I know you’re working, but, like, do you have a break?”

 

Harry jumps off the stage and jogs toward him. He’s smiling, a small smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Yeah, yeah. I can take a break for a few minutes. There's like nobody else here.”

 

Harry stops a few feet in front of Zayn. He’s slightly out of breath, and Zayn’s not surprised. He never realized they made churches this big.

 

“Um, is there a place we could go? To talk?” Zayn asks.

 

“Sure. Of course. Here’s, uh, here’s fine. Pick a seat.”

 

It’s odd to sit in a room that big with nobody else around but it will have to do. Zayn takes a moment to memorize Harry’s face just in case this doesn’t go well and Harry just sits there next to him, his face turned toward Zayn, open and waiting in spite of everything Zayn’s done to him.

 

“So I’ve been talking to Niall and Louis,” Zayn starts. “Obviously. And they’ve made me think about some of the things I said the other day, about Denver and stuff.” Zayn pauses to scratch at the half-day’s scruff on his chin. His hands are shaking and he can’t seem to make them stop. It’s fine, he reminds himself. He’s doing what he has to do. He takes a deep breath and continues. “When I first came out to my parents, like, it was bad. Really bad. My mom cried for nearly a week straight. My dad couldn’t look at me. And, like, I wasn’t the easiest child in the world. I got in my share of trouble in school. I got tattoos. I smoke and drink, which my parents hate. So I was never the perfect kid or anything, but coming out, it crushed them. But then, after a few weeks, they seemed to be better. I thought they were getting over it. But they weren’t.”

 

Zayn cringes as he remembers the start of the screaming matches, the motivation for him to get as far away from home as possible. Harry must sense how difficult it is for Zayn to talk about it because he takes Zayn’s hand in his, right there in his father’s church, and squeezes. He doesn’t say anything, though, just waits patiently for Zayn to continue.

 

“It turns out,” Zayn says bitterly, “that they weren’t over it at all. They thought they could fix it, make me become the normal Muslim boy they always wanted. They tried to arrange a marriage for me with a third cousin from Pakistan. Maryam. Her family doesn’t have a lot of money, and neither does mine, not really, but at least Maryam could live in the United States. It would be a better life for her, and it would be an answer for my ‘problem’, as my dad so kindly put it.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Harry murmurs, his face etched with concern.

 

“I’m not,” Zayn says. “That’s what gave me the final motivation I needed to leave. I don’t want to hide who I am anymore. I don’t think I should have to. And I don’t think you should have to hide yourself either. I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t want you to go through what I went through. I don’t want your parents to try to fix you the way mine tried to do with me. It sucks to go through that, and you just … I never want to see you hurt.”

 

Zayn’s eyes are filled with tears, but he refuses to let them fall. He can’t cry in front of Harry. He doesn’t want Harry to say anything out of pity.

 

But Harry is also teary, and unlike Zayn, he’s not shy about it. He wipes at his eyes with his free hand before he speaks.

 

“Zayn, I’m not … I mean … I know it’s going to be really hard to tell my parents,” he says. “I’ve spent years trying to, like, hide who I am from myself. If it’s been this hard for me to come to terms with it, I … well I know it’s going to be way harder for them to accept it. And maybe, I don’t know, maybe they never will. But I love my parents. I love the way they raised me, for the most part, and the way I grew up. I can’t just, like, tell them and run, you know? Why even tell them at all if I’m not going to deal with it?”

 

Zayn nods, sniffling. “Yeah, I get that,” he admits. “Niall said something pretty similar.”

 

“Yeah, so …” Harry trails off and looks at the stage for a moment, seems to consider what he wants to say next. “I, Zayn, I really like you. Obviously. I want to, like, do this with you. I mean, I broke up with Emily after that first time we kissed.”

 

“Seriously?” Zayn cuts in. The jealous side of Zayn is massively relieved he doesn’t have to compete with her anymore, but still. That’s a big step to take. Zayn doesn’t think anyone has ever given someone else up for him before. Harry blushes and looks down at his toes.

 

“I … yeah I just knew the entire relationship was wrong anyway. I didn’t, like, want to lead her on any more than I already did? And, like, the only person I really want to um, be with is you, so.”

 

“Harry,” Zayn starts, but Harry cuts him off.

 

“Listen, I just, I need you to know I can’t go to Denver with you. And if you decide to go anyway, like, obviously that’ll be … not fun for me, but I understand even more now, I think, why you want to go. But I hope you understand why I can’t. And, like, I have to come to terms with who I am still. And I have to figure out how to fit the church into all this, because, I guess, like I still believe in God, you know? I want to go to some of the services Niall’s been telling me about. I have to be here for that. I have to stay here.”

 

And Zayn, yeah, he gets it. His mind was mostly already made up before he got here anyway, but hearing Harry talk about how much he wants to face his problems, Zayn can’t help but admire him for it. That’s something Zayn’s never had the strength to do on his own.

 

So Zayn make his choice — the right one, he hopes.  

 

“I get it,” he tells Harry. “I do. And I’ve been thinking about Denver and what’s out there for me and how much of it I can have here. And, well, I could try to just get a job here for a while, if Niall and Louis will let me live on their couch for a little while of course. I mean, they’ve offered, but still. I just, I think I should stay here for now. Give us a chance. And then maybe you wouldn’t have to do all of this alone.”

 

Harry’s face splits into the widest smile, full dimples and everything, as he pulls Zayn into a tight hug. The arm rest is digging into Zayn’s side and the angle is kind of awkward, but Zayn can’t bring himself to care, not when he’s wrapped in Harry Styles like this.

 

“So you’re staying?” Harry asks, his lips brushing Zayn’s ear. Zayn shivers and nods. The lump in his throat is too large for him to attempt to speak.

 

Harry only pulls back enough to rest his forehead against Zayn’s, his twinkling green eyes meeting Zayn’s hazel ones. “Can I kiss you? I just really want to kiss you.” Harry says, and Zayn just nods again, keeps nodding as Harry’s lips meet his own. It’s a slow kiss, gentle and sweet and innocent, mostly, until Zayn can’t help himself and playfully bites at Harry’s lower lip.

 

Harry pulls back then, but he’s still smiling. “Maybe that’s not the best thing to do in a church,” Harry says as he guiltily looks around the empty room.

 

Zayn rolls his eyes and smiles back. He pulls Harry into another hug. He doesn’t want to let go of this boy of his. Not yet. Possibly not ever, if he can help it.

 

“I have been thinking, though,” Harry whispers as he rests his head on Zayn’s shoulder. “Maybe sometime soon you can teach me how to, um, give a … like … a blow job?” He hurries the last two words, his cheeks a delicious rosy color.

 

“Harry,” Zayn scolds playfully. “Didn’t you just point out that we’re in a church?”

 

Harry pouts at him and Zayn uses every ounce of self control he has to stop himself from kissing Harry senseless right there.

 

“I can teach you another time, though,” Zayn reassures. “We have time.”

 

 


End file.
